A Helping Hand, PG version
by ghost02
Summary: Complete. MSR romance parody. How Mulder and Scully get together, with a little help.


RATING: PG  
SPOILERS: Tooms, Anasazi, Never Again, Fight The Future (movie),  
Sein Und Zeit  
TIMEFRAME: after Closure, before all things  
SUMMARY: Ice Queen? Check. Gratuitous mention of bees? Check.  
Puppy face? Check. Celine Dion? Check...  
NOTES: Response to a challenge (elements at end). Thanks to xfb  
and Sky for the beta and additional cliche suggestions. Also,  
as far as I can tell, the show never definitively answered the  
question of whether Skinner and Sharon divorced. For the purposes  
of this story, they did.

A Helping Hand

Prologue

It all began one February day in Assistant Director Walter S.  
Skinner's office. Mulder and Scully sat poring, chestnut head  
next to auburn like shades of autumn, over a case file about  
magnetic eggplants in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Skinner looked across his  
desk at them and experienced an epiphany: 'They're in love,' he  
thought. It seemed most curious to him that he had never before  
acknowledged that fact.

Still, Skinner doubted they were together in that sense of the  
word. Not the way they should be. To test his theory, he asked  
casually, "So, agents, do you have any plans for the weekend?"

Mulder's head whipped up. Scully's eyes darted sideways at him.

"Uh, I thought I'd go to a UFO convention," said Mulder.

Scully looked relieved, probably because Mulder had said nothing  
about having a date. She said, "I might visit my mother."

Mulder also looked relieved, probably because Scully didn't have  
a date, either.

Thoughts of the case flying from his head, Skinner said, "You  
two may go."

Scully opened her mouth, but Mulder placed his hand on the small  
of her back and propelled her out of the office.

Alone, Skinner sat and pondered for a very long time. Ever since  
his divorce from Sharon, he'd been adrift. He needed a hobby. Or  
better yet, a cause. And what more worthy cause than the union of  
his two favorite, albeit most problematic, agents? If he  
couldn't be happy, at least they could be.

Only, how to achieve his self-imposed goal? Skinner needed help.  
He needed a partner who was as devoted to Mulder and Scully's  
welfare as he was. He needed...Scully's mother! Scully had  
mentioned her during the meeting. It was a sign! He looked up  
Mrs. Scully's phone number and dialed.

"Hello," answered a pleasant female voice.

"Margaret Scully?"

"Yes."

"This is Assistant Director Walter Skinner from the Federal  
Bureau of Investigation. I think that together, we can help your  
daughter and her partner."

Two Months Later

Bob Stanton, manager of the Fieldcrest Motel in Sydney,  
Connecticut, eyed the two annoyed FBI agents. They were more  
agitated than he had been led to expect.

"I'm sorry," he said once more. "I know it's a Wednesday, and  
ordinarily we would have plenty of free space. But you came here  
at a bad time. Our rooms have been booked for weeks in advance  
for the annual Chilton Corporation Business Convention. There's  
one room with a double bed left, and that's due to a last-minute  
cancellation. You aren't going to find any other openings within  
a 60-mile radius."

"Do you have a cot I can use?" the man asked.

Bob shook his head, using his knee to wedge the spare cot safely  
out of sight under the counter.

The woman sighed. "We don't have much choice. I'm tired of  
sitting in a car, and one room is better than none."

"You're right," her companion agreed. "We'll take the room." He  
handed Bob his credit card and signed the register. "Let us know  
if any other rooms become available, okay? Especially if they  
have a connecting door."

"Yeah, right." Bob pushed the key to number 42 across the desk.  
After the agents left his office, he picked up the phone and  
dialed a number.

"Skinner," said a familiar voice.

"Walter, it's Bob. They took the vacancy, but they weren't happy  
about it. Agent Mulder said something about wanting connecting  
rooms. What does he think this place is, the Ritz? Are you sure  
your plan will work?"

"Don't worry, Bob," his old friend replied. "All Mulder and  
Scully need is a nudge. Now that I've provided it, they should do  
the rest themselves. There is only one bed in that room,  
right?"

"I didn't forget. So, what happens when they figure out that the  
case you sent them on is a fake?" Bob wondered.

"If all goes as expected, by tomorrow morning, they won't care,"  
Skinner said confidently. "Thank you again for your help. If you  
ever need a favor, get in touch."

"Right, Walter." Bob hung up, hoping his friend really did know  
what he was doing.

Back in Washington, D.C., Skinner turned to his companion,  
Margaret Scully. "Mission accomplished. The next time we see  
them, they should be engaged."

Maggie clasped her hands. "That's wonderful news! I've been  
waiting years for Dana and Fox to wake up to the truth. They're  
both so stubborn. No matter how many times I remind Dana that Fox  
is like a son to me, she doesn't take the hint. And no matter how  
many times I tell Fox to call me Mom, he doesn't make a move,  
either. If you hadn't phoned me out of the blue that day two  
months ago, I might have given up hope. All along, I've been  
afraid that Dana was holding back because of the anti-  
fraternization regulation."

"It exists," said Skinner. "But in my opinion, it shouldn't  
apply to Mulder and Scully. Their partnership is the strongest  
I've ever seen, and it's clear those two were meant for each  
other. You're quite a woman, you know. Not many mothers would  
put so much thought and effort into securing their daughter's  
future."

Maggie turned pink. "Walter, those two don't know how fortunate  
they are to have you on their side."

"Or you, Maggie. Or you."

The unlikely pair smiled at each other.

Meanwhile, oblivious to the conversation taking place far away,  
Mulder crawled the dark-blue Ford Taurus alongside the row of  
motel rooms. Scully pointed out a "42" against the peeling paint  
of a door near the end of the ramshackle structure, and Mulder  
parked in the closest available space. He pulled the key from  
the ignition and passed it to Scully. While she circled around  
to the back of the Taurus, he went to inspect the room. It took  
some wiggling and a solid shove to force the key into number  
42's lock. He put his weight into it, and the door lurched  
inward, accompanied by a long, loud squeal like that of a piglet  
being slaughtered.

Mulder stared at the dismal interior. From the threadbare carpet  
to the ratty armchair to the rabbit-eared television set, it was  
a virtual carbon copy of the many other cheap motel rooms they  
had stayed in over the seven years of their partnership. The  
sole difference was that they were to share this room, and there  
was one bed. It was a double, true, but it was still one bed.

Scully walked up beside him with her suitcase. "Mulder, we're  
both adults. There's no reason we can't share the bed."

"It's not sharing the bed that has me worried. It's touching it  
at all. Look at it. The sheets are gray."

"Well, with any luck, we'll only be here tonight. Let's unpack,  
eat, and then get some sleep. In fact, why don't we order  
something?"

Mulder nodded. "What do you want: Chinese, or pizza?"

More enterprising than he, Scully entered the room and grabbed  
the phone book from the chipped bedside table. "We had pizza last  
time."

"Chinese it is, then." Mulder accepted the book and flipped to  
the yellow pages.

Forty-five minutes later, as they sat cross-legged on the floor  
enjoying the last of their meal, Scully remarked, "Good thing  
Skinner told us to try this motel. Otherwise, we might not have  
found a room at all."

"It gets even better, Scully. We got fortune cookies for dessert.  
Let's see what lies in store for us."

"Mulder, you know I don't believe in these things." Nevertheless,  
she accepted the cookie he shoved toward her.

He broke his open first. The fortune read, "The love of your life  
will soon be yours." Not likely, at this rate. He substituted,  
"Your generosity will be rewarded. How about yours?"

Unlike Mulder, Scully ate her cookie before smoothing the strip  
of paper that held her fortune. After a pause, she crumpled it  
into a ball and reported, "It says that the early bird catches  
the worm. In other words, time for bed. Which side do you want,  
Mulder?"

He shrugged. "You pick."

"You can have the left, then." She fished around in a  
dresser drawer and came up with an armful of flannel. "I'll  
change in the bathroom."

He noticed that she took the wadded paper with her. Had she lied  
about her fortune? What could the cookie have told her? He  
contemplated that question, but reached no conclusion by the  
time Scully emerged from the bathroom, clad in a shapeless set of  
rose-covered pajamas.

"Your turn," she prompted him.

Mulder gathered his sweat pants and T-shirt and headed into the  
bathroom. He seized the opportunity to hunt for Scully's mystery  
fortune, but there was no sign of it. His curiosity piqued, he  
returned to the bedroom.

Scully lay tucked under the blankets on the far side of the bed.  
Mulder crawled into the left side and closed his eyes.

"Mulder?" Scully whispered.

"Yeah?" he whispered back.

"You can turn on the TV if you want. I know it helps you get to  
sleep. I mean, since we usually leave our connecting door ajar  
when we're out on a case, I hear it sometimes," she added  
quickly.

"Thanks, Scully."

"Well, just so you know it won't bother me."

"Okay. Thanks," he repeated.

"Good night, Mulder."

"Good night, Scully."

They lapsed into silence.

Two hours later, Mulder hadn't slept a wink. He tried to blame  
his insomnia on indigestion resulting from bad crab egg foo yung,  
he real reason was that the heat radiating off of Scully's body  
so near to his made it impossible for him to relax. Scully  
evidently suffered from no similar affliction. Her deep, regular  
breathing attested to her state of sleep.

Frustrated, he took her up on her television offer. He didn't  
want to watch the triple X channel with Scully in the room, so  
his viewing options were limited to infomercials and home  
shopping. When the Stupendous Yappi came on at 3 a.m., he called  
it quits, turned off the set, and lay staring at the ceiling,  
waiting for morning to come.

Even that strategy was doomed to fail. Mulder remained unable to  
nod off for long minutes that stretched into hours. To complicate  
matters, Scully turned over in her sleep, pressing against his  
side. Mulder panicked. He couldn't let her wake up in that  
position; they would both be hideously embarrassed. He eased away  
about an inch, but Scully moved with him. He wiggled away; she  
followed. That pattern continued until Mulder found himself  
precariously balanced near the edge of the bed.

Scully stirred and murmured in her sleep. It was now or never.  
Mulder lunged to the side and landed on the floor. As he rubbed  
his hip and congratulated himself on his narrow escape, Scully's  
eyelids fluttered open.

"Mulder? What's going on?" she mumbled in a sleep-thickened  
voice.

He cleared his throat. "Nothing. I'm going jogging. Sorry I woke  
you up."

She rubbed her eyes and peered at her watch. "It's only 6:25."

"I know. It's gonna be a long jog. Go back to sleep. I'll wake  
you up when I get back." He slipped through the door before  
Scully could utter another word.

Back inside the room, unbidden tears leaked from Scully's eyes.  
Mulder had fallen off the bed to avoid a minimal amount of  
physical contact. If she'd thought he might be at all attracted  
to her, that dream was vanquished. She recalled last night's  
misleading fortune that she had flushed down the toilet. "Your  
tall, dark, handsome partner will propose to you." Never had a  
fortune cookie lied so baldly.

It was no use trying to get back to sleep. She might as well  
review the case notes until Mulder resurfaced. The investigation  
had all the earmarks of being dead end, but Skinner had insisted  
that they follow up on it. A woman named Mrs. Simmons claimed  
that a giant spider abducted her baby every night and returned it  
before dawn each morning. Even Mulder considered the case to be  
only mildly intriguing.

As promised, he was gone a long time. He returned at a little  
after 8, shivering from the cool air yet sweating from his  
exertions. After his quick shower, he and Scully drove to Mrs.  
Simmons' apartment building three miles away.

They located the correct apartment, and Mulder banged on the  
door. No answer. He hammered again, with the same results.

Halfway down the hall, a door flew open. A elderly neighbor  
poked her kerchiefed head out like a painted turtle peeking from  
its shell. "Are you looking for Mrs. Simmons? She moved last  
weekend."

"Are you sure?" Mulder called back.

"Sure, I'm sure. Her baby used to cry half the night and keep me  
awake. Since they've been gone, I've been sleeping fine."

"Well, have you seen any giant spiders around here?" Mulder  
asked.

The woman stared at him and addressed Scully. "Lady, what is  
your husband talking about?"

"We're not married," Scully said. She thought, 'But people often  
assume we are.'

The woman sniffed and drew her head back inside her room.

After they confirmed with the manager that not only had Mrs.  
Simmons indeed left with no forwarding address, but she had never  
complained to him about spiders of any size, they agreed to  
go home.

"Just another hoax," Mulder decided. "At least our car didn't  
break down this time," he added in a weak attempt at humor. The  
failure of their most recent maroon Ford Taurus while on the  
road to Boston remained a sore subject.

Upon their return home, they reported to Skinner's office.

The meeting over, Skinner watched the door close behind Mulder  
and Scully. He could hardly believe the plan had gone awry.  
According to his calculations, Mulder and Scully should have  
fallen into each other's arms the previous night. But judging  
from their behavior, they hadn't made any progress. This  
matchmaking business was obviously not as easy as it appeared to  
be at first glance. He had to confer with Maggie. With his  
connections and her brainpower, their new and improved idea was  
guaranteed to work.

Later that evening, Mulder moped around his apartment. He was  
lost without Scully around. The Lone Gunmen had invited him over  
to nitpick the scientific inaccuracies of "Star Trek: Voyager,"  
but he didn't have the heart for it. He sprawled on his battered  
leather sofa, his right arm dangling over the side, before he  
had the welcome idea of turning on the radio. Coincidentally, a  
song was just beginning. The voice was that of Celine Dion, one  
of his favorite singers.

I want to be the face you see when you close your eyes  
I want to be the touch you need every single night  
I want to be your fantasy  
And be your reality  
And everything between

A bolt of shock shot through Mulder. How could Celine Dion know  
exactly how he felt about Scully? It was uncanny, like she had a  
window into his mind. With her next words, the phenomenon  
continued.

I want you to need me  
Like the air you breathe  
I want you to feel me  
In everything

At the same time, in Scully's Georgetown apartment, she sank into  
her vanilla-scented bubble bath. As she uncapped her favorite  
strawberry shampoo, she realized that she had neglected to turn  
on the radio, which she liked to play while soaking in the tub.  
She corrected her oversight and settled back into the foamy  
liquid. A beautiful song was playing, and she recognized the  
melodious voice of Celine Dion.

I want you to see me  
In your every dream  
The way that I taste you feel you breathe you need you  
I want you to need me  
Like I need you

She couldn't have said it better herself. The lyrics echoed her  
feelings for Mulder. If only they weren't so one-sided. If only  
he could see her in the same light. If only it could be true...

I want to be the eyes that look deep into your soul  
I want to be the world to you  
I just want it all  
I want to be your deepest kiss  
The answer to your every wish  
I'm all you ever need

After the last note faded away, Mulder lay awash in memories of  
Scully.

"Mulder, you're the only one I trust."

"I hope you know that I'd consider it more than a  
professional loss if you decided to leave."

"I had the strength of your beliefs."

"Even when the world was falling apart, you were  
my constant...my touchstone."  
"And you are mine."

He desperately needed to hear her voice; nothing else would do.  
Maybe this time, he could work up the courage to declare himself.  
As Jim Croce's "Time in a Bottle" played in the background, he  
hit the speed dial with joint hopes: that Scully wouldn't be  
annoyed with him for calling at 11:21 p.m., and that a male voice  
wouldn't answer the phone.

If I could save time in a bottle

One ring.

The first thing that I'd like to do

Two rings.

Is to save every day 'til eternity passes away

Three rings.

Just to spend them with you

"Hello."

He slapped off the radio in the middle of Jim Croce's next note.  
"Scully, it's me. What are you wearing?" For tension-soaked  
seconds that felt more like hours, he held his breath until she  
answered.

"Cotton pajamas and a floor-length robe. Why did you call,  
anyway? Is something wrong?"

In an effort to calm his nerves, he bounced his basketball as he  
replied, "Nah, just feeling introspective. Thinking about what I  
would regret not having done if colonization began right now.  
That sort of thing."

"Oh." Scully yawned. "Look, Mulder, I'm pretty tired. So if  
there's nothing else..."

"Sorry, Scully. You go on to sleep. I didn't mean to keep you  
up."

"That's okay. See you tomorrow." She hung up.

The buzzing dial tone mocked Mulder. He dropped the phone into  
the cradle and groaned. He'd chickened out again. Disgusted with  
himself, he pulled his pillow over his face.

Scully looked down at her sheer peach silk negligee. Mulder  
never would have believed she was wearing it. Mulder, her  
partner, thought that he could call her at all hours and use her  
as his talk-to whenever he was bored, or lonely, or frustrated,  
with no regard for how his actions might make her feel.

Come to think of it, she should have turned the tables and asked  
what he was wearing. She settled for the next-best thing and  
formed a picture of a mental Mulder mannequin.

Mulder wearing a Speedo.

Mulder wearing blue jeans.

Mulder wearing a gray T-shirt.

Mulder wearing a black leather jacket.

Mulder wearing his glasses.

Mulder wearing all five was an unbeatable combination. She might  
as well stop there; it wasn't going to get any better than that.  
Unless she substituted a turtleneck for the T-shirt. That  
decision was a tough call, and she couldn't choose between them.  
Scully drifted into dreamland with a smile on her lips and  
visions of a perfectly-clad Mulder dancing in her head.

As was customary, Mulder arrived at the office ahead of Scully  
the next morning. He unlocked the door and saw a 9x11 manila  
envelope lying on the floor. It was from Jim Wilson, a Bureau  
photographer. Whenever Jim was assigned to one of his and  
Scully's investigations, he took an extra photo for Mulder in  
exchange for the occasional loan of a video.

Mulder slitted open the envelope and lifted out the fresh shot of  
him and Scully. It depicted them facing each other over a  
mutilated corpse (that had, thankfully, been cropped out). Mulder  
turned to the bulletin board and carefully thumbtacked the 5x7  
shot into place between a Loch Ness clipping and a crop-circle  
diagram. One of a half-dozen candids adorning the board, it was  
his new favorite.

He heaved a heavy sigh, dropped into his chair, and propped his  
feet up on his desk. The problem was, he could never tell Scully  
how he felt. Nearly every ounce of the pain she had suffered  
since being paired with him was his fault, from Melissa's death  
to Emily to her abductions. He was no good for her. Never had  
been, never would be.

The ringing phone shattered his reverie, and he scrabbled for it  
under a mound of papers. "Mulder," he said into the receiver as  
the tower of files collapsed onto the floor.

"Agent Mulder," said Skinner's assistant, "AD Skinner would like  
to see you and Agent Scully in his office."

"Scully isn't here."

"Come alone," the disembodied voice instructed.

During the elevator ride, Mulder wondered why the AD had  
summoned him. Most likely to chew him out over some quibble with  
the latest field report, he concluded. Skinner was constantly  
finding fault with his work.

The secretary waved him into Skinner's office. He entered and  
shut the door.

Skinner waited for him to sit down before beginning. "Agent  
Mulder. As you know, the annual FBI ball is tonight. I expect  
you to attend to prove you can get along with the other agents.  
And no sneaking off after 15 minutes -- you have to stay for a  
full hour. This assignment will improve your interpersonal  
relationships. It's for your own good."

"Then why does it sound so bad?" Mulder protested. "Besides, it's  
not part of my job description to attend stuffy events during my  
off-duty hours, especially on less than a day's notice."

"I'm making it your job," Skinner informed him in a decidedly  
smug tone. "If I'd given you more warning, you might have found a  
way to squirm out of it. Now that won't be so easy. You go, we  
have no problem. You don't go, and I drop so much paperwork on  
your desk, it will take you a year just to read it all."

Mulder envisioned the current state of his desk. A year's worth  
of additions would not be a pretty sight. "I guess I don't have  
a choice," he grumbled.

"I want Agent Scully there as well," Skinner added, "but I'll  
come up with a better incentive for her. You can break the  
news."

Mulder gloomily stalked back to his office. Scully was there,  
tunelessly humming as she sorted the papers on her desk into tidy  
stacks. She looked at him and shaded her eyes. "Mulder, can't you  
ever turn it down? One day, you're going to blind someone with  
those ties of yours."

Mulder glanced down at his aesthetically-pleasing, lightning  
bolt-patterned neckwear. "What's wrong with it, Scully?"

She shook her head. "If you don't know, I can't tell you. But  
please take some advice: Stick to solid colors. They're boring,  
but inoffensive."

He scowled as her words brought to mind the unpleasant task  
assigned to him by Skinner. Best to get the torture over with as  
soon as possible. "Scully, Skinner ordered us to attend the ball  
tonight for at least an hour, under pain of some horrible,  
unspecified punishment for you, and a mountain of paperwork for  
me, if we don't show."

He'd gotten it all out in one breath. Scully stared blankly at  
him. Had she heard?

"Mulder, are you serious?"

Yes, she'd heard him. "Skinner was set on it. I'll pick you up at  
7:30."

"Why don't I pick you up? I hardly ever get behind the wheel when  
we're together."

"You want to know why? Because your lead-footed driving scares  
me," he lamely joked.

Scully raised an eyebrow and gave Mulder her patented  
ScullyGlare. "If we don't go together, you won't have to worry  
about it."

Him and his big mouth. He hadn't been aware that she was so  
sensitive on the subject. He tried to apologize, but Scully  
brushed away his words. It looked like he would be driving alone  
to the ball.

At around 6:00, Mulder entered his apartment building and  
collected his mail from the downstairs box. As he rode up in the  
elevator, he saw that he held the latest issues of "Alien  
Abduction Monthly" and "Celebrity Skin," a handful of bills and  
junk mail, and a small, unmarked box that probably contained the  
video he'd ordered over the Internet last week. He was alone, so  
he tore open the package to confirm that it was "Redheads in  
Vegas." Too bad he didn't have time to watch it before the ball.

The elevator stopped on his floor, and he made his way to his  
apartment, straightened the lopsided "42," and unlocked the door.  
There was one message on his answering machine: from Cherise, who  
asked him to call 1-900-555-1013. His fish tank featured two  
floating bodies: the rummy-nose tetra he had named Krycek, and  
the guppy called Spender.

Nearly tripping over the heaps of clutter coating the floor, he  
spat a sunflower-seed shell into the air and went into his  
bedroom to change.

Scully stood in her living room and cursed Skinner like the  
sailor's daughter she was. She went ahead and cursed Mulder,  
too, since the situation was probably his fault.

Although she didn't relish the company of her snobby fellow  
agents, she had little choice but to obey Skinner. A Scully had  
never backed down from a challenge before; she had no intention  
of being the first to let down the family name. She strode to her  
closet and dug out her secret weapons -- her 6" Prada heels and  
the strapless green satin dress she had been saving for a special  
occasion.

Ninety minutes later, Scully wished she could take back the  
stupid argument with Mulder about her driving. She'd ended up  
taking a taxi when a ride from him would have been welcome. But  
it was too late for regrets. She paid the driver and headed for  
the ballroom of the J. Edgar Hoover Building.

After a handful of steps, she paused behind a pillar to adjust  
her right shoe. As she tugged at the strap, the familiar voice of  
Agent Hanover drifted to her ears from perhaps 15 feet ahead.

"Honestly, I don't know why Mulder stays with that Ice Queen. Do  
you, Melinda?"

"No, but I know why she stays with him," the other woman, who  
sounded like Agent Booth, replied. "Have you ever seen him in a  
Speedo?"

"What about his 'spooky' reputation? Doesn't that make you  
nervous?" Hanover asked.

Booth laughed. "It adds to his mystique. I wonder when someone's  
going to win that huge office pool. You'd think it would be easy  
to prove they're doing it. All anyone would have to do is follow  
them into the parking garage, or bug their office."

"Well, he may have melted the Ice Queen, but she'll freeze back  
up once he dumps her. It could happen tonight, in public!"

Both agents laughed as they walked away.

Trembling with indignation, Scully emerged from her quasi-hiding  
place. She couldn't believe the nerve of those women. She knew  
neither she nor Mulder had any friends in the Bureau, but the  
disparaging comments still stung like acid in an open wound. It  
was particularly unfair that her and Mulder's cruel nicknames  
from the Academy days continued to follow them around. She had to  
spend an hour in that ballroom? She'd do it, all right, with far  
more class than Agents Booth and Hanover could ever imagine  
possessing.

Mulder was bored. He ran a finger under his collar and wished to  
be anywhere except standing by the bowls of flat raspberry punch  
in the Hoover Ballroom. How much longer before his sentence was  
up? It wouldn't be nearly so bad if he had Scully's company, but  
there had been no sign of her. Perhaps she planned to defy  
Skinner and not come. Not that he would know. After he'd  
insulted her driving, she hadn't exactly been forthcoming about  
her plans.

As for Skinner's theory that he would improve his interpersonal  
relationships by attending, no such thing had occurred. He was  
the recipient of admiring glances from various women, but no one  
approached him.

As he popped half of a stale windmill cookie into his mouth, a  
murmur arose at the head of the room. Curious, Mulder looked in  
that direction. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and there  
stood the most beautiful woman Mulder had ever seen. It was  
Scully, a vision in her strapless gown.

One thought circulated through Mulder's Jelloed brain: He had to  
reach her before anyone else did. Like he was moving in slow-  
motion, he made his way toward her. He wasn't fast enough;  
Skinner appeared from out of nowhere and extended his hand.  
Scully took it, and she and Skinner circled the dance floor as  
Mulder retreated to the fringes of the crowd to choke down glass  
after glass of watery punch.

The second the music ended, he moved possessively to Scully's  
side and glared at the other male agents who had also started  
forward. As a man, they gulped and dropped their eyes. It looked  
like no one was willing to tangle with "Spooky" over his woman.

He looked at Scully. "May I have this dance?" With those words,  
he became the envy of every man in the room.

Speechlessly, Scully floated into his arms.

They danced time and time again as their fellow agents stared,  
whispered, and boosted the office pool with every second.

The 6" heels had been a wise choice, Scully thought. Without  
them, she wouldn't have stood high enough to hear Mulder's  
murmur of, "Scully, your hair looks like gray fire."

What a lovely compliment. Then she analyzed it more thoroughly  
and began to worry. Mulder was red/green colorblind, so of  
course her hair looked gray to him. But he was afraid of fire.  
Maybe his description of her hair wasn't a compliment. She stole  
a glance at his face. He was smiling. It really had been a  
compliment, thank God.

At the finish of the next dance, Mulder maneuvered Scully toward  
the door. "Have you been here for one hour yet?"

She checked the clock. "Yes, in about four minutes."

"I can't wait that long. Did you drive?" Mulder asked.

"No, I took a taxi."

"I can give you a lift home," he offered.

She smiled her thanks and walked out with him.

As he watched them exit the ballroom, Skinner beamed approvingly.  
Mission accomplished. He had to call Maggie and fill her in on  
their marvelous success.

Mulder halted his car in front of Scully's apartment building and  
turned off the ignition. That action should be enough to alert  
Scully that he wanted an invitation inside.

She picked up on his intent with unerring instinct. "I didn't eat  
before I left. I thought I'd just grab a snack when I got home."

"Yeah, me, too."

"Why don't you come up with me, then? We can order in."

In answer, Mulder got out of the car and trailed Scully to her  
apartment. Inside, she said, "I'm going to change. I'll be right  
back." She headed toward her bedroom, leaving Mulder alone in the  
living room.

He paced restlessly while waiting for her to return. Scully  
wouldn't mind if he put on some music. He wandered over to her CD  
collection. Faith Hill, Sarah McLachlan, Jewel, the Backstreet  
Boys, Britney Spears... He pushed the Shania Twain CD "Come On  
Over" into the player and fast-forwarded to "You're Still The  
One."

When I first saw you, I saw love.  
And the first time you touched me, I felt love.  
And after all this time, you're still the one I love.

He cast about for another activitity to keep himself amused. And,  
as so often happened with Mulder, his overactive brain found a  
way to get him in trouble.

Scully's apartment was usually as neat as a pin, with a place for  
everything and everything in its place. In short, it was the  
exact opposite of his own pigsty. Except for today. There on the  
coffee table lay the holiest of holies: Scully's journal, opened  
to a page covered with writing. Mulder crept a little closer, and  
a little more, until he stood within arm's length of the book. He  
shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. But the temptation was so great.  
What if Scully had written about him? (What if she hadn't?) Her  
comments wouldn't be unflattering, would they? He flashed back to  
a recent Saturday-morning telephone conversation.

Scully: Scully.  
Mulder: Scully, it's me.  
Scully: What is it, Mulder? And it had better not  
include the words autopsy, plane, or pack.  
Mulder: Would I do that to you four weekends in a row?  
Don't answer that. Um, look, I'm really sorry...

He felt a renewed pang of guilt over that incident. Even though  
he knew Scully was terrified of flying, he was forever dragging  
her across the country. So yes, any mention of his name might  
well be connected to some exceedingly negative observations. But  
if so, he reasoned, it was best that he learned what upset  
Scully so he could amend his behavior.

Good and bad briefly skirmished before Devil Mulder stabbed Angel  
Mulder with his pitchfork and knocked him out of the running.  
Mulder picked up the book and read.

"It has been yet another frustratingly  
inconclusive day, and once again I find myself  
turning to this book to reveal my innermost  
secrets.

"One more day gone by, so many more opportunities  
lost. If only he knew the truth. If only he knew  
how I really feel. Sometimes I want to shout it to  
the world. But instead, I just think it. The only  
place I can truly express myself is here, in these  
pages I know he will never see. I imagine myself  
one day turning to him and saying, 'I love you, "

The sentence ended there. Scully must have been interrupted  
before she could complete the incriminating entry. Mulder felt  
almost sick with overwhelming jealousy. Who could his rival be?  
Was it someone he knew? A man he unwittingly passed in the halls  
of the J. Edgar Hoover Building every day? Oh, God, it couldn't  
be Skinner, could it? He was the only other man Scully had danced  
with at the ball. Mulder had to learn the truth. Maybe Scully  
mentioned the man's name on another page. He frantically skipped  
to an earlier entry.

So absorbed in his hunt was he that he failed to register the  
warning sounds of a door clicking open, the pad of unshod feet,  
the abruptly cut-off breathing. He became aware of Scully's  
presence in a highly unpleasant manner, when a voice roared,  
"Mulder, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Scully crossed  
the room with quicksilver strides and snatched up the book in a  
whirlwind of motion.

The universe around Mulder seem to swirl at warp speed as he  
struggled to complete a sentence. "I...um...I..."

Scully pointed at the door. "Out! Get out! Now!"

As Scully advanced on him, Mulder retreated until his back hit  
the door. Only then did he turn and grasp the knob, eager to  
escape before she killed him.

Once the door closed behind Mulder, Scully sank to her knees on  
the floor. She was sure her face was lit up like a firecracker on  
the Fourth of July. Had he seen? Did he know? She would never be  
able to look him in the eye again! Mulder probably regarded her  
as a little sister. How humiliating if he had read her pathetic  
outpourings of undying ardor. She cringed as she recalled the  
more embarrassing passages -- the impossible dreams, the  
imaginary dates, the fevered ramblings of a brain drunk on  
unrequited love.

Through it all, the music taunted her.

Looks like we made it  
Look how far we've come, my baby  
We mighta took the long way  
We knew we'd get there someday

"Shut up, Shania!" Scully yelled.

Mulder spent the weekend torturing himself over his lack of  
willpower. Why hadn't he been stronger? What had possessed him to  
read Scully's journal? Would she forgive him? How much would she  
make him suffer first? How much did he deserve to suffer?

On Monday morning, he sat in his office and convinced himself  
that no punishment was great enough. He would have to throw  
himself on Scully's mercy.

He chewed on the end of his pencil, then leaned back in his chair  
and launched it upward. He'd been waiting a long time for Scully,  
as evidenced by the thickness of the ceiling-forest of pencils.

His cursed photographic memory wouldn't let him forget. Every  
word of that page remained etched upon his mind. He tortured his  
psyche with the multitude of ways in which he had screwed up, not  
just Friday but every single day of his miserable existence. The  
laundry list of sins ended only when he heard the tap-tap-tap of  
approaching footsteps.

He arranged his face into his most pathetic pout and prepared to  
waggle his eyebrows.

Scully didn't so much as glance at him as she entered.

He had to make a verbal apology this time? She really was  
pissed. He whined, "I'm sorry for invading your privacy, Scully."

"Let's forget about it," she said distantly.

Scully hated him. The bottom had fallen out of Mulder's world.

Skinner fully expected Mulder and Scully to call in sick on  
Monday morning. When they didn't, he began to worry. He finally  
phoned their office himself. Scully answered the call. Her  
subdued tone worried him even more. He made up an excuse to get  
them into his office. They wouldn't look at each other, let alone  
touch. His grand plan had failed, but what could have gone awry?  
The set-up had been ideal. He dismissed the two and steeled  
himself to make the telephone call he dreaded.

No! Skinner was no coward. He would meet his challenges head on,  
like a man. He would break Maggie's heart to her face. He told  
his secretary to cancel his appointments for the rest of the  
day and drove to Baltimore.

Although he'd given her no notice, Maggie greeted him with a  
pitcher of lemonade, a plate of peanut-butter cookies, and a  
serene smile. "You came over to celebrate with me, Walter?"

He flinched. "There's no easy way to say this: We struck out  
again. Our plan didn't work. I can't begin to apologize enough."

"Walter, it's not your fault. You'll see. Everything will work  
out in the end."

Skinner laughed shortly. "I can't imagine how. Our first two  
schemes have succeeded only in driving a wedge between Mulder and  
Scully."

Maggie's eyes flashed fire. "We can't give up! I won't let us.  
You're not the only one who knows people. Your friend managed the  
the motel. I have a friend who owns an online dating agency. If  
I call Doris and explain the situation, we can work something  
out."

Skinner's optimism returned with the power of Maggie's  
certainty. "I feel better already. I always feel better around  
you. So much so that...Maggie, over the past few months of our  
acquaintanceship, I've developed these very special feelings for  
you -- feelings I most sincerely hope you might return. Could  
you, would you, ever feel the same way?"

His entire future rested on the next movement of those bow-  
shaped lips.

They shaped a single word: "Yes."

Mulder had endured Scully's cold shoulder for three whole days  
when a knock sounded on his door one afternoon. It had to be her!  
He sprang up to open the door, but it was another Scully who  
stood facing him: Margaret. He tried not to look too disappointed  
as he said, "Hello, Mrs. Scully. It's nice to see you."

"Now, Fox, I keep telling you to call me 'Mom,'" she chided as  
she breezed into the kitchen. He followed, belatedly realizing  
that he should have been a gentleman and carried her large, white  
cardboard box for her.

Mrs. Scully set the box on the counter, propped open the  
refrigerator door, and shook her head as she surveyed the meager  
contents. After she flipped up the box flaps, she removed a  
lasagna platter, then neatly slid it onto the top shelf between a  
green slice of what had once been pizza and a four-months-  
expired jug of milk. Item after item filled the empty spaces: an  
apple pie, a mound of sandwiches, fried chicken, and meatloaf.  
Finished, Mrs. Scully rubbed her hands together in a satisfied  
manner. "There. Oh, Fox, what would you do if I never came over?  
Starve, I suppose."

Maggie's expression turned grave. "Fox, you can't slip anything  
past me. I raised four children. I can tell when they're feeling  
down. What you need is a girlfriend. Since you don't seem to be  
interested in my Dana -- there's no accounting for some people's  
taste -- maybe you'll have better luck elsewhere. I took the  
liberty of getting you a gift. It's a trial membership in a  
wonderful online dating service. I only ask that you try it once.  
That's all. Once."

She pressed a legal-sized envelope into his hand and flew out the  
door. In the wake of Hurricane Maggie, Mulder gave in and  
examined the single paper inside the envelope.

"Are you lonely?" the text began.

'Yes,' he answered silently.

"Do you worry that you'll always be alone?"

'Yes,' again.

"Are you willing to give us a chance to make your life happier,  
satisfaction guaranteed?"

A little more slowly, another 'Yes' followed.

"Great! The Lonelyhearts Online Dating Service is waiting for  
you! Your access code is x1013f. Sign up now for your no-strings-  
attached trial membership."

If he couldn't have Scully, shouldn't he have someone else?  
Another woman would be a poor substitute, perhaps, but better  
than no one. Mrs. Scully had seemed so pleased with herself. She  
would be sure to ask if he had tried the agency, and he didn't  
want to disappoint the gracious lady.

Within minutes, Mulder had turned on his computer and was at the  
Lonelyhearts site, where he validated his user code. The next  
step was to fill out a simple application.

For user name, he rejected M.F. Luder, the pseudonym he'd used  
for his "Omni" article, and trustno1, his old computer password.  
"TruthSeeker" sounded appropriate. For occupation, he considered  
law enforcement but ended up with the safe alternative of psycho-  
logist. Interests: basketball, watching old movies, jogging. He  
omitted baseball because he didn't want to give the impression  
that he was a complete sports nut. He left paranormal off the  
list for fear of giving the impression that he was a complete  
nut, period. Last but not least, the description of his dream  
woman was modeled on Scully.

He reviewed his application and hit the save button.

Following her visit to Fox, Maggie stopped by Dana's. There, her  
spiel ran almost identically.

"Since you aren't interested in Fox, isn't it about time you got  
a boyfriend? A good man is hard to find, but I live to serve. The  
Lonelyhearts Online Dating Service can change your life. I took  
the liberty of buying a three-month membership in your name. All  
the information is in this envelope. Dana, please try it. It's a  
gift."

For the next two days, the envelope lay on the edge of the table,  
looking accusingly at Scully whenever she entered the room. After  
a particularly trying Friday, she went into the kitchen to  
prepare a crisp salad. Going back into the living room with her  
bowl, she caught sight of the envelope. It seemed almost to be  
waving for her attention. She gave in and tore it open as she  
chewed on a tough rutabaga.

The offer was straightforward. Based on her interests and  
preferences, potential dates would leave her a message. She could  
choose to go out with any, all, or none. What did she have to  
lose? If none of the matches appealed to her, she could drop the  
matter. She sat down at her computer and typed in the  
Lonelyhearts URL. After she entered her access code of dk1121s,  
the application form popped up on the screen.

First, it asked for a user name. "DrRed," she decided. Next,  
occupation: She didn't want to put FBI. That designation might  
attract a bunch of psychopaths. She settled for a partial truth  
and typed in "doctor." As for interests, reading and traveling  
topped the list. Her ideal man? She couldn't help picturing  
Mulder as she typed her short description.

Three days later, Scully checked to make sure that Mulder was  
across the office and absorbed in a file before she logged on to  
her computer, where she tapped in "ILoveFox" as her password and  
headed straight to the Lonelyhearts site. After she gave her user  
name and access code, she clicked on the mail icon.

Her box contained three matches: Metsfan, Unlucky, and  
TruthSeeker. She searched for Metsfan's profile. Unfortunately,  
he lived in Philadelphia. She had endured an extremely unpleasant  
experience in that city just a few years ago. Unlucky was a  
smoker. That left TruthSeeker. She liked the name; it reminded  
her of Mulder. So did his profile. She left a message in  
TruthSeeker's box, expressing her interest in meeting him, and  
signed off.

Having made a move to get on with her life, she felt a little  
better. She addressed Mulder: "I have to go to the lab. I'll be  
back in about half an hour."

As soon as she left the office, Mulder booted up his computer  
and entered his password: ILoveDana. At the Lonelyhearts site, he  
found a message in his box from "DrRed." She wanted to meet him.  
He checked out her profile. Hmmm. A doctor. That was good. All in  
all, she sounded a lot like Scully. He decided to respond.

After a few swift messages back and forth, the date between  
DrRed and TruthSeeker was set for Friday night at 7 in the  
Brocade Curtain, a posh new restaurant located in the bowels of  
Washington, D.C. They were both to give the name of "Grey," and  
meet each other for the first time at their table.

On the morning of the date, though, Scully suffered serious  
concerns. What if it didn't work out? What if he was a total  
loser? She was taking a huge chance.

Her nerves must have shown on her face and in her actions;  
Mulder twice asked if she was all right. She absently answered  
him and continued to brood.

She wished more than anything that her date was with Mulder. But  
she had long ago accepted the fact that she wasn't his type. No,  
he liked leggy, well-endowed brunettes, like Diana and Detective  
White and Bambi Berenbaum. She could never measure up to them.

Mulder took a swallow of coffee and made a face. "This stuff  
tastes like mud. Who made it, anyway?"

"You did," Scully reminded him.

"Oh." He set down the mug with a thunk. "Look, Scully, I need to  
know. Is anything wrong?"

It was the third time he had asked that question, and she felt  
something inside herself snap. "Mulder, I'm fine!" she snarled.

He jumped to his feet. "What is it, Scully? Are you sick? Did the  
doctor give you bad news?"

The sight of his panic face made her instantly regret her ill-  
chosen words. "No, Mulder, I'm sorry I said I was fine," she  
apologized. "I wasn't thinking. I'm okay. There's nothing  
physically wrong with me. I'm just having a bad day." She needed  
to erase the word "fine" from her vocabulary, she decided, or  
its usage would result in similar unfortunate misunderstandings  
in the future.

Just before lunchtime, Mulder excused himself from the office.  
Scully waited for him to return, hoping to make peace by offering  
to go to lunch with him, but 30 minutes ticked by with no sign of  
Mulder. She gave up and ate a meal of plain yogurt and tofu at  
her desk, all the while wondering where her workaholic partner  
could be.

An hour after she finished eating, he wasn't back. She didn't  
think he had gone to meet anyone; he hadn't displayed any of the  
usual signs. He'd even left his cell phone on his desk. She  
wracked her brain, trying to figure out where he might be. Then  
it hit her. Their bench by the reflecting pool! Why hadn't she  
thought of it sooner? She hurried out of the office to find him.

Mulder sat on the familiar bench, staring over the rolling  
waters. Dozens of shells decorated the ground at his feet. He  
didn't know what he'd do when he finished his 5.75-ounce bag of  
David sunflower seeds. He didn't want to move, let alone return  
to the office. If he did, he'd have to face Scully.

She had been very pensive lately. He could trace the genesis of  
her unusual behavior to the night he'd read her journal. Still,  
he'd pissed her off before, and she'd never remained so withdrawn  
for so long. There had to be more behind her attitude than his  
behavior. Perhaps the man she had written about in her journal  
had broken her heart. He no longer thought it was Skinner. He'd  
been watching like a hawk, and Scully just didn't act "that way"  
around their boss.

No, whoever or whatever was troubling Scully remained a mystery.  
He gave up on trying to solve it, and instead concentrated on his  
own problems. He hadn't been having one of the better months of  
his life. The Lonelyhearts date would probably be a disaster. It  
wouldn't be fair to treat the woman like a surrogate Scully. It  
wouldn't be fair to stand her up, either. He didn't know what to  
do.

He heard light footfalls stop beside him. "Is this seat taken?"  
a soft voice asked.

Without turning his head, he replied, "No, but I should warn you  
that I'm exhibiting self-flagellating tendencies."

Instead of replying "I'll take my chances" as he expected, Scully  
quipped, "Sure, fine, whatever," and sank onto the bench at his  
side. "You ditched me again," she said conversationally.

He swung toward her. "I did? When?"

"You left the office with no explanation, didn't come back for  
hours, didn't call me, forced me to track you down with no leads.  
That qualifies as a ditch."

"Yeah, but this time, you didn't have to save my ass," he pointed  
out.

The tension eased, they sat in companionable silence for some  
time. Mulder finished his seeds and tossed the empty bag in the  
trash receptacle five feet away. Scully crossed her legs and  
settled back.

When the quiet grew oppressive, Mulder felt compelled to speak.  
What came out of his mouth was, "Why do you stay with me,  
Scully?"

"Why?" she repeated. "I've told you before. I value the work we  
do. It's important."

"But you could do important work somewhere else, too."

"I like it here. I also value our friendship."

He placed his hand over Scully's in thanks. To his relief, she  
didn't move hers away. He was forgiven. A lump rose in his  
throat, threatening to choke him. He would never want to lose  
Scully's friendship. If he'd been foolish enough to admit his  
true feelings, it would have been withdrawn immediately. He  
should accept reality and try to move on with his life. The  
blind date tonight would be his start.

On the stroke of 7, Scully marched into the Brocade Curtain with  
her head high. She gave the name of "Gray" at the front desk; the  
waiter, Jacques, led her toward a corner table.

Her date was sitting with his back to her. Even from that angle,  
he looked startlingly like Mulder. Why did she have to picture  
him in every man she met?

She rounded the table and saw his face. Oh! That explained it. It  
was him!

"Mulder!" she cried in shock as he gasped "Scully!" in an  
identical tone.

Nervelessly, she fell into the chair the waiter pulled out for  
her before he departed.

"How...what..." Mulder said.

"I don't understand..." Scully began.

The waiter interrupted the non-conversation as he returned to  
their table with a bottle of Dom Perignon.

They simultaneously regained their voices and chorused, "But we  
didn't order champagne."

The man nodded. "I know. It was arranged in advance. Courtesy of  
Walter." He poured them each a glass and retreated.

A long, uneasy silence ensued.

Mulder took a large sip of champagne and nearly choked on it.

Scully stared at the floor, feeling as out of place as a  
Democrat in a roomful of Republicans.

Then Mulder threw down his napkin. "Let's get out of here."

Despair formed in the pit of Scully's stomach. Mulder couldn't  
have made it much more obvious that he didn't want to be around  
her. No doubt he had been hoping for a different date entirely.  
Not plain old Dana Scully, whom he saw almost every day in the  
office. Miserably, she preceded him out of the restaurant and  
toward her car.

"Scully?" he called.

She turned.

Mulder stood beside his vehicle. "I thought we would take my  
car?"

"Take your car where?"

"Somewhere you'll like." He formed his best injured puppy-dog  
face: the one that reminded her of a golden retriever.

So, Mulder didn't want to get rid of her. She smiled and walked  
back to him.

Fifteen minutes later, Mulder pulled into the parking lot of a  
small, run-down diner that boasted a purple neon sign reading  
"Al's All U Want." He cut off the engine and turned to Scully.  
"I thought we'd feel more comfortable here because we always eat  
at this kind of place when we're on the road."

Scully nodded. As she got out of the car, she stumbled over  
a pothole, and just managed to regain her balance. Good thing she  
hadn't worn the 6" heels tonight.

Mulder was almost instantly at her side, looking at her in  
concern as he grabbed her arm. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fi--" she began before remembering her resolve to never  
again use the "f" word. "Okay," she substituted.

She was rewarded with the brilliant smile Mulder reserved for  
her. "As long as you have your sea legs now."

She laughed to indicate her understanding of the inside joke,  
and was heartened when Mulder kept hold of her arm as they  
entered the building.

The interior of the diner achieved the dubious distinction of  
looking of even cheaper than the exterior had. From the cracked,  
dingy linoleum floor to the faded wallpaper, it was in desperate  
need of an overhaul. Only the incongruous sight of a glistening,  
state-of-the-art jukebox made a positive impression.

In such an atmosphere, they were wildly overdressed. Mulder  
didn't care. He steered Scully to a reasonably clean-looking  
booth in a deserted corner of the room, where they slid in on  
opposite sides.

The waitress, a middle-aged blonde with a weathered face and  
large, plastic hoop earrings, sauntered over and handed them two  
menus. She braced her hip against their table and doodled on her  
pad as she waited for them to order.

Mulder waved expansively. "Have whatever you want, Scully."

She searched the menu with the air of one who expected to find a  
particular item. "Coffee and garden salad with French dressing,  
please."

Mulder snorted in disbelief. "Scully, I said anything, my  
treat. You don't have to get that rabbit food."

"You said to order what I want," she pertly replied. "I did."

"Okay, have it your way," he relented. "I'll take the hamburger  
special with French fries and a large Coke."

It was Scully's turn to scoff. "Do you know what that stuff will  
do to your arteries, Mulder?"

"At least it has some taste to it!"

The familiar banter lasted throughout the meal, and temporarily  
succeeded in making the two forget that they were on their first  
date. But when they pushed away their empty plates, the  
conversation died, and they had trouble meeting each other's  
eyes.

'It shouldn't be this difficult,' thought Mulder. 'We've been  
working together for seven years.'

'Why is everything so awkward?' thought Scully. 'We know each  
other so well. Maybe we aren't meant to be, after all.'

Mulder saw Scully glance at her watch, and felt panic claw at his  
belly. The start of the date had been ridiculously inept, the  
drive to the diner nerve-wracking, but if they left now, he had  
the feeling he would never get another chance.

"Dance with me," he blurted.

Scully's eyes widened. Mulder mentally kicked himself and  
attempted to lay on some charm. "Just once?" he pleaded, getting  
up. He didn't think she would refuse to move while he stood like  
an idiot.

She didn't. She placed her hand in his and rose, and they walked  
to the cleared area near the jukebox. Like it had been  
predestined, a new song started to play as they set foot in  
the space. Mulder recognized REO Speedwagon, with "Can't Fight  
This Feeling." Yes, it definitely was fate. He took Scully in  
his arms and swayed to the music.

I can't fight this feeling any longer  
And yet I'm still afraid to let it flow  
What started out as friendship has grown stronger  
I only wish I had the strength to let it show  
I tell myself that I can't hold out forever  
I said there is no reason for my fear  
Cause I feel so secure when we're together  
You give my life direction  
You make everything so clear

As he listened to the lyrics, they magically gave him the courage  
to unlock his heart, to express the emotions within. "Scully." He  
stopped. That didn't sound right. It was a "Dana" moment, not a  
"Scully" one. He tried again. "Dana, I have something to tell  
you."

She gazed up at him with her beautiful, Windex-blue eyes. In that  
moment, he felt like he saw straight through to her soul, where  
her feelings mirrored his own. His next words flowed out like a  
rush of lava down a mountainside. "I love you, Dana Katherine  
Scully. You're my one in five billion."

Her steps faltered. "Mulder, I--"

He tightened his grip around her waist. "No, please call me Fox.  
That is, if you don't mind," he added shyly.

"I thought you hated your name?"

Reading Dana's mind, he knew that she was remembering a day when  
she had called him by his first name and he had practically  
laughed in her face. "Dana, I said that to maintain a distance  
between us. I had to keep up that wall any way I could. But now  
it's different. Now, I'd like to hear you say my true name."

"All right...Fox." She tested out his name. And while he had  
never liked it before, it sounded perfect coming from her lips.

He didn't realize he'd spoken those words until Dana whispered,  
"I love you, too, Fox William Mulder. You complete me."

He hesitated. A niggling doubt kept him from accepting Dana's  
words at face value. "I want to believe. You don't know how much  
I want to believe. But in your journal, you wrote about a man you  
were in love with. I didn't find his name before you caught me."

"Oh, silly, I was writing about you! Who else could it possibly  
have been?"

"I thought it was Skinner," he confessed, "until I watched you  
around him and realized he's strictly an authority figure to  
you."

"Speaking of Skinner, he obviously played a part in our blind  
date. We'll have to thank him. But not tonight. Tonight, I have  
other plans for you." Dana gave him a speaking look.

They danced in a daze, until a teenager with a fresh scar on his  
forehead switched the jukebox to Eminem's "Drug Ballad."

Fox dropped his arms away from Dana. "Well, uh, do you want to go  
to my place?"

"I think mine would be more comfortable, don't you?"

When Dana spoke in that suggestive tone, he would deny her  
nothing. At their booth, Fox found a check for 9.58. He dropped  
a 10 bill on the table and positioned a palm on the small of  
Dana's back to guide her out of the diner. In the reflection in  
the window, he saw the waitress mouthing insults at them, but  
nothing could shake his mood. He and Dana were finally together.

That night, for the first time in many weeks, Fox slept for four  
hours straight without waking from a nightmare. When he woke up,  
he was alone. He hadn't dreamed it all, had he?

He had to find Dana, to make sure she hadn't changed her  
mind about them. He scrambled out of bed, dug his extra clothes  
out of the emergency drawer Dana kept for him, dressed in record  
time, and rushed into the living room. He slid to a stop just in  
time to avoid a collision with Dana, who held a glass of iced  
tea.

She grasped the glass with both hands to steady it. "Fox, why are  
you running around?"

She'd called him by his first name; all was well. "No reason."

She looked sternly at him. "You shouldn't try to hide your  
feelings from me. What upset you?"

"I was afraid that last night was another dream, and I was alone."

"It certainly wasn't, and you definitely won't be ever again."  
She pressed a kiss to his cheek and set the glass on the coffee  
table, on top of a "Journal of the American Medical Association"  
issue. "There's your iced tea, baby doll--" She cut herself off  
and flushed. "I'm sorry, you probably don't want to be called  
that."

"Hey, I kind of like having a pet name," he informed her.

She smiled. "I'm so glad you like it. You'll be hearing it a lot  
more in the future."

"I'll have to come up with a nickname for you, too, then," Fox  
observed. "What about 'angel'? That's what you are to me."

"Oh, how sweet." She apparently thought it was sweet enough to  
warrant another kiss. That kiss swiftly turned into two, and  
three, and more. Fox's lips migrated downward, and Dana bent her  
neck to allow him better access.

She jerked away when he sucked especially hard. "Fox, did you  
just give me a hickey?"

"I can't say for sure."

"If you did, that would mean I'll have to wear turtlenecks to  
the office for a whole week."

"No, Dana, that would mean you'd have to give me a hickey in  
return to pay me back. I won't mind at all, I promise."

"Down, boy!" Dana said firmly. "Do you have any plans for today?"

"Well, we need to go back to the Brocade Curtain to pick up your  
car, and what's for breakfast?"

"Anything that requires less than five minutes of preparation,  
and no talent. It's time for another confession, Fox. I can't  
cook. That's why I always suggest getting takeout."

He shrugged. "That's okay. I can't cook, either."

"And that's why you always suggest getting takeout!" Dana  
realized. "We really are meant for each other!"

"More proof that we belong together," Fox acknowledged. "But I  
need to make sure that we're on the same page. Where do you want  
our relationship to go?"

"We shouldn't let any more time slip away. We can spend the  
weekends at each other's place. One day, I'd like to move in  
together."

Fox grinned so widely, he felt like a coat hanger was stretching  
his mouth. "I love the idea. When it's safe to go public, we can  
buy our own place. Wouldn't a house be great?"

"Terrific, but can we afford it?"

Fox took a deep breath and plunged in. "Yes. See, I have all this  
trust-fund money, and--"

"Trust fund?" Dana interrupted. "You have a trust fund?"

"You'd be surprised at the amount I inherited when my father  
died. The rest came from my mother's estate. It didn't seem  
important at the time. But now I'm glad I have it, for your sake.  
We'll never have to worry about money."

"That's great, Fox."

Fox sighed in relief. He had been afraid that Dana would be angry  
with him for keeping the truth about his financial status to  
himself for so long. "Someday we'll get a dog, and name it Boomer  
or Daggoo," he said.

"After 'Moby Dick' characters. You remembered, Fox!" Dana  
exclaimed.

"I never forget anything about you, Starbuck."

"Except my birthday," Dana pointed out.

"If we get married on February 23 and it's also our anniversary,  
I'll never forget it," he promised.

"Fox!" Dana exclaimed. "Was that a proposal?"

"This isn't quite how I imagined making it all those hundreds of  
times. But..." Fox knelt before Dana. "Will you do me the honor  
of becoming 'Mrs. Spooky' for real?"

Tears sprang into Dana's eyes. "Of course I will, Fox."

The insistent ringing of the doorbell postponed their  
celebration. Dana jumped up to answer it. "I'll get rid of  
whoever it is," she said as she pulled open the door. "Oh, Mom!"  
She hugged her unexpected visitor.

Fox politely stood as Maggie entered the living room. She looked  
from Dana to him and back. "Well, Dana, I have to say, I'm  
surprised. Lately, you've sounded so depressed, and today you  
look so happy. Does your change in attitude have anything to do  
with Fox's presence? What happened?"

"Assistant Director Walter Skinner," Dana replied. "He set us up  
last night. He's our very own cupid!"

Maggie threw her arms around Fox and squeezed him so tightly that  
he gasped for air. "Welcome to the family, Fox. Now you have no  
excuse not to call me Mom!"

Right on cue, the bell chimed again. And when Dana opened the  
door, who should stand there but AD Skinner himself.

"Thank you, sir," Dana told him.

He smiled. "You can call me Walter outside of work. That goes for  
you, too, Mulder."

"In that case, we're Fox and Dana to you, Walter," Fox warmly  
replied.

Walter ignored him. He had just caught sight of Maggie, and  
couldn't seem to tear his eyes away. Nor could she stop staring  
at him.

Dana leaned her head against Fox's arm and whispered, "Looks  
like we're not the only ones in love."

Walter crossed the room and took Maggie's hands in his. "Should  
we tell them the news?" At her nod, he turned to face Fox and  
Dana. "Maggie and I have been working for weeks, trying to get  
you two to admit the truth. And along the way, a miracle  
occurred: We fell in love!"

"We wanted you to be the first to know -- we're engaged!" Maggie  
announced.

"That's wonderful," said Dana, thrilled for her boss and friend,  
and her mother. "We're engaged, too."

Grinning broadly, Walter enveloped her in a bear hug. "Guess  
you'll be calling me 'Uncle Walter' soon." He then turned to Fox  
and vigorously pumped his hand. "That goes for you, too. But only  
off the job." He winked.

Fox winked back. It was good to know that he and Walter under-  
stood each other. All of those years of butting heads dissolved  
under the strength of their new bond.

"Wouldn't it be perfect if we could be June brides in a double  
wedding?" Maggie cried.

A shadow passed over Dana's face. "The FBI won't allow it.  
Regulation 1013, Clause X, prohibits romantic involvement between  
partners. If anyone found out that we were so much as dating,  
we'd be subject to disciplinary measures. We might even lose our  
jobs. If we got married, the consequences would probably be the  
worst possible."

Skinner shook his head. "Don't worry, kids. I'm working on  
getting an exemption granted that will enable you to continue  
working together on the X-Files no matter what. You can pay me  
back by naming your first son after me. Walter Sergei Scully-  
Mulder has a very nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"Oh, no. Our first son is going to be called Fox, Jr." Dana shot  
Fox a look that dared him to disagree with her.

He gave in gracefully. "Then our first daughter should be named  
Melissa Dana, or Samantha Katherine. And Margaret is also a  
great name."

The joyous group traded names and dates as they planned their  
futures together. What would normally have been a solitary,  
dismal weekend for each of them had turned into a time of family,  
love, and togetherness that would never end.

END

The challenge elements were:  
--a dead fish  
--Skinner dancing with Scully  
--a Celine Dion song  
--an online dating agency  
--an old friend of Skinner's  
--Star Trek: Voyager  
--Mulder and Scully at a diner

ADDITIONAL DISCLAIMER: None of the songs belong to me,  
either.

.


End file.
